


A Betting Man

by Tipper



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Challenge Response, Drama, Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipper/pseuds/Tipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning home to Four Corners, Ezra is ambushed in a canyon by two men who remind of the person he used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Odd Man Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2002, this was an answer to both the January and July challenges on the old M7 challenge site. I don't actually recall what the challenges were now, but I do know that, when I wrote it, I apparently got the idea from Heather F., so this was for her.

Ezra grinned as the silver-haired gambler by his side whispered in his ear, the words feeding his avarice as effectively as wood feeding a fire.

“Well,” he replied, softly, “that changes the odds a little.” _And very much in his favor_. Staying the extra day here in Blue River had definitely been the right call, even if it had meant getting up far too early on a Saturday morning. Glancing around, he called out to the crowd: “it is now 5-to-2, gentlemen, 5-to-2 on the man in the red shirt!”

Instantly, people were shoving money in his hands, which he managed to take at the same time as he scribbled down the amounts next to nicknames in his small book. He rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip and flipped the page, making the calculations rapidly in his head as his pencil moved furiously over the fresh page. The man who’d whispered to him—a handsome gentleman who had come out of nowhere to place a fairly sizeable bet on the long shot (changing the odds from 5-to-1 to 5-to-2)--smiled knowingly and winked at Ezra. The gambler grinned back. No matter what happened now, he would come out with a sizable donation to his saloon fund.

Cheering suddenly erupted around him, and he looked up as two men stepped out into the street, each emitting a false calm as they lifted their jackets back to reveal their guns. One wore a bright red shirt, and the other wore almost all brown.

“Whoa! Hold on here!” a voice shouted, causing the crowd to look down the street towards the jail. A kid not much older than JD and wearing a deputy star was running down the street. “No gunfights in the town limits!”

A gunshot erupted at the kid’s feet, causing him to jump back a mile. The “deputy” stared in shock at the man who’d fired at him. It was an older man, grizzled like Josiah, wearing a pin-striped suit and carrying an air of authority that clearly cowed the boy.

“Mayor?”

“Stay out of it, boy,” the man said, blowing the smoke off his gun and sticking it back in its holster. “You knew this was coming.”

The kid shook his head, pointing down at the two gunfighters. “One of em’s gonna die! I can’t let that happen. If Sheriff Donnelly were here, he'd...”

The Mayor had walked up to the boy by then, both lowering their voices as they continued their argument. Ezra frowned imperceptibly, watching the conversation with a pang of guilt. He couldn’t actually hear what they were saying, but he could guess. The kid was twitching in place now, hand alternately resting on his guns and on his waist, feet shifting back and forth. He wanted to stop the fight. 

JD would want the same thing.

Something niggled inside the gambler. He knew what it was, and he didn’t want it there. He’d purposefully taken this “vacation” to the town of Blue River because he’d wanted to remove himself from being a lawman for a while, to get away from the stared he’d get from his fellow peacekeepers anytime he did anything they didn’t understand – like betting on a gunfight – yet he could still feel Four Corners inside of him.

Like tapeworm.

Lifting his head, he was determined to shake it off. He returned his gaze to the book in his hands, and the smile (albeit now a little forced) returned. Numbers starting swirling around again in his mind, and the dollar signs that followed cleared that last vestiges of his conscience.

“Last bets!” he yelled, as the two gunfighters returned to their posing. The man in red took a few steps closer to the center of the road, and the man in brown followed. Bets rang once more in Ezra ears, and he took the remaining cash.

The man in red lifted his chin. He was tall with dark shadowed eyes and a block shaped jaw partially hidden by a long moustache and goatee. The guns at his hips looked worn, not old, but worn. Well used. His clothes were clean and plain, and he looked very comfortable in them. He settled on one hip and arched an eyebrow at his adversary.

The old man in brown was smaller, shiftier. He was wearing a dun colored leather coat, sported a massive, silver speckled brown beard and what had to be one of the ugliest hats Ezra had ever seen. It looked more like someone had just slapped bits of leather together and belatedly decided to make it a hat, rather than the other way around. There was also a feather stuck to the side of it, dyed a bright orange color.

All the gambler knew about what was happening was that the tall man in red was named John Jameson and was a local foreman. The other was a drifter named Pickaxe—a former miner still looking for his lucky claim. Their feud had apparently been going on since Ezra's arrival in town about four days before, when Pickaxe had apparently “insulted” Jameson’s wife--tried to rape her, said some. Others thought Jameson had caught them kissing and had hit his wife, and Pickaxe had tried to defend her. Either way, it didn’t matter. They hated each other now, and it had come down to this. 

Ezra honestly couldn’t imagine anyone kissing Pickaxe with the rat’s nest he wore as facial hair, but, then again, it wouldn't be the first time he'd been surprised by a woman.

“You ready, Pickaxe?” Jameson asked, standing only about five or six feet from the other man. Pickaxe offered a gap-toothed smiled in response.

“Yup.”

“Then let’s--”

At that moment, the deputy came back to life. “NO!” he shouted, “Stop this!” He started running again. The mayor tried to stop him by grabbing for his arm, but missed.

“Go!” Jameson shouted, drawing his gun.

Pickaxe was faster, much faster. He fired before Jameson had his gun even halfway up.

Jameson looked down at the hole in his chest, then up at Pickaxe. The old drifter’s smile grew. Jameson’ eyes narrowed, partly in pain, partly in anger. He lifted his gun up and fired. It didn’t even get close. Pickaxe laughed as Jameson collapsed the rest of the way to the ground, lifeless eyes staring up at the blue sky above.

And someone screamed.

Jameson’ stray bullet had hit the deputy running up behind Pickaxe. The kid had dropped like a stone.

Pickaxe turned around, eyes widening slightly. 

The crowd erupted, mostly in anger, and Pickaxe was smart enough to realize that the person they were angry at was him. He turned and ran towards the stables at the end of town, narrowly missing being shot in the back as he fled.

Ezra stood stock still, staring at the dead deputy. He felt people nudging him. The other gamblers.

The silver-haired man whispered in his ear again, but this time Ezra didn’t smile. He started counting out money, but it seemed like nothing more than paper in his hands. When it was over, and he’d tucked his own winnings in his pocket, the emptiness he felt worsened.

He needed to leave. Now.  
_____________________________________________

Chaucer picked his way slowly up the canyon that led to Four Corners, stopping every now and then to look around, shuffling at his own pace. He wasn’t getting any responses from his rider, so he was basically following his own route up, zig-zagging up the steep, wide rocky trail.

Ezra stared at nothing, the beauty of the canyon completely missing him. To his right, brown, red and gold rocks lifted up, covered in green moss and flowers, an early spring bringing the canyon into full bloom. To his left, douglas firs rose majestically up from the ravine below, hanging onto each other and creating a natural shelter for the plant life that burgeoned along the ravine walls. This place was an oasis in the otherwise dull landscape around Four Corners. Fairly soon, however, the gambler would be on the flat, uninteresting plateau, heading towards home. 

Home. Even this far away, he could feel its innocence to what had happened, to what he’d participated in. Did he deserve to even go back there?

Around him, the air thickened, forming a soft haze, promising oncoming rain. Ezra didn't notice.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. What was wrong with him? Those men had been strangers. That deputy a stranger. He’d owed them nothing. And it wasn’t his business. As he’d always done, he taking advantage of a situation to make some cash, and had done very well. 

He wiped a hand on the back of his neck, then let it drift down to his waistcoat pocket where he normally tucked any winnings. It was almost empty.

He’d given the profit he’d won to the families of John Jameson and the deputy. 

Why had he done that? Why did he care? What was wrong with him?

He recalled that time when Buck had blustered his way into fighting for Inez when that Don came to town. He’d happily taken bets then, the idea that the end result would probably be Buck killing that pompous Spaniard not bothering him in the least. It wasn’t until the Spaniard had offered swords instead of guns that Ezra had stopped taking the bets. But that was because he was concerned Buck would lose, because Buck was his friend. That was a different story. Here, he hadn’t known any of the players. It shouldn’t have made any different who won or lost. It shouldn't have mattered that the deputy had died.

His head lowered, and he leaned forward over Chaucer’s neck. The chestnut stopped climbing, confused. 

“I can’t do it anymore,” the gambler whispered to the horse. “Mother was right. I’m not the same person. This damnable job has ruined me.” Ezra hugged the horse’s neck, and Chaucer patiently let him. The horse shook its head after a moment, waking the gambler from his reverie. When he lifted himself back up again, he finally took stock of his surroundings. 

“Lord, we’re still in the canyon? We should have reached the town of Dry Ridge by now. Come on, boy, get moving!” he clicked his tongue and Chaucer dutifully started climbing again, this time with a little more direction and much more speed. Ezra leaned forward slightly, shifting to accommodate the different gait.

He barely heard the gunshot that took him down.  
_______________________________________

Voices woke him, though, at first, they were as muddled as the rest of his thoughts. 

He was splayed on his back, arms outstretched and bent at the elbows. He sensed that his jacket was open and that everything felt damp, but not much else seemed clear. After a moment, he realized that it was raining softly. 

The voices grew louder.

He didn't know where he was or what was happening, but something was nagging at him, telling him he needed to wake up. The voices were part of that. Slowly, he began to make sense of them—at about the same time that he realized someone's hands were digging into his waistcoat pockets. 

"…put the cash in here. Where the hell is it?" the searcher groused.

A horse whinnied angrily, and Ezra heard it shifting around. Chaucer?

"Well, he didn't hide it on this damn horse, ornery cuss," someone else said. "Needs a good whippin' this one. Teach ‘em to bite at me." 

The gambler frowned imperceptibly at that, and shifted away with a small groan. Pain arched down his back, and he gasped. 

"He's alive!" said the man that had threatened whipping.

"Could a told you that, PK," the man searching him said calmly. "Could feel him breathing."

That breathing had increased in speed, but the pain was subsiding, leaving behind a dull throbbing both in the back of Ezra's head and left shoulder.

"But, but…" PK sounded surprised at something. "Look at that blood under him! I coulda sworn I'd done more n' winged him."

"He'll be dead soon enough. Leaking like a sieve, he is. That there puddle under his shoulder is growing fast." 

Ezra continued to frown, realizing he knew both men's voices; he'd heard them both before.

He flinched as he felt his waistcoat ripped open. The same person that had been searching his its outer pockets felt for inside pockets in the black silk lining. A disgusted grunt came from the searcher.

"Jes' more cards hidden in here. He's done something else with it."

"I don't like that he's still alive, Zed," the other one said. Ezra could hear him shuffling from foot to foot in the background.

"Damn it, PK, let go the horse and just pull off his damn boots will ya? Gotta have his stash there--it’s the only place left."

Ezra shifted again when he felt someone lift up his left foot. He attempted to open his eyes, but all he saw above him was fog and wet, prompting them closed again. A hand pressed itself against his chest to stop him moving, and he moaned again. 

The boot came off after a sharp tug.

"There it is," the one called Zed said triumphantly, a little too close to Ezra's head for his liking. He was the one holding him down. Ezra opened his eyes again, and finally got a good look at "Zed" before his eyes slid shut again.

It was the silver-haired gambler who had bet on Pickaxe back in Blue River. Which probably meant….

"Damn!" PK's voice was bright. "Look at all this! Gotta be over three hundred here! Windfall!"

…that PK was "Pickaxe." 

Ezra groaned. 

"Must be his rainy day money," Zed quipped, looking at the gambler and chuckling softly as the rain continued to fall around them. "Take it all, PK. Is the other boot the same?"

His right foot was lifted, and the same sharp tug took off his other boot.

"Empty."

"Ah well, three hundred's still more n' enough to see us for a good long while. Better n' most hauls." 

The hand on Ezra's chest lifted away, and the men talking about him suddenly seemed farther away than mere standing up would allow. Furiously, he realized it was because his mind was slipping away again—he was losing the tentative hold on reality that the two men had given him. He tried to stop the downward spiral of his consciousness by focusing on their words.

"Get his guns," he heard Zed say, the voice quieter than before. “We can sell ‘em in the next town.”

"A Remington and a Colt," PK noted, and Ezra vaguely felt the colt lifted from his left side, then the long barreled gun on his right leg. "Wonder if he was any good with 'em."

"Man's a gambler, not a gunslinger. Probably has two guns because he's overcompensating."

Ezra frowned in annoyance at the laughter that remark brought. PK noticed.

"Aw, look, I think we offended him!" The laughter grew, and Ezra's frown darkened.

"Well, he won't be offended by nothing in a minute," Zed remarked, his tone abruptly ice cold. "Shove him over the ravine edge, and grab his horse. We can sell him too."

Fear rose in the gambler's throat, and he tried to open his eyes again and protest, but lethargy had too strong a grip. He felt hands slide under his back, and, though he desperately tried to get his fingers and hands to respond and grab onto something, he felt himself lifted and tipped over the edge. The world disappeared as he rolled over and over down the steep slope until all he knew was terror, pain and blackness.


	2. Against All Odds

Chris was leaning forward on his knees, sitting on the edge of the boardwalk and inspecting the rain soaked earth at his feet. An ant was busily making its way past his black boots, skirting puddles of water, the large bit of bread in its mandibles constantly forcing the insect to stop and reset the piece.

“Greedy bastard,” the gunslinger muttered, watching as the ant stopped again. 

Truth be told, he wasn’t really watching the ant. The back of his mind was busily turning over the days since Ezra last telegrammed, the gambler stating in no uncertain terms that he would return to the town when he damn well pleased….

But probably Friday.

Chris smiled briefly, and then frowned again. Friday had been three days ago. 

Not that he would admit he was worried. After all, the overall tone of the letter had suggested that Ezra was having a lovely “vacation” and had no specific time in mind for his return. 

But he had still said Friday in the letter. And Ezra usually returned when he said he would return. There was a strange punctuality about the man that way. If he said he’d be at the jail “about one” that usually meant around three. If he said he’d give you your bag back on Monday, that usually meant Tuesday. So, if he said he was going to return Friday….

He should have been back last night. 

It had started raining on Saturday morning. It was still raining, though not hard. A soft, constant misting rain that enshrouded the town in a dense fog.

Chris looked behind him at the telegraph office again, wondering a little why he was still sitting here. Jensen had said he'd come find him when any news came in.

And yet here he sat. In the rain. Water was trickling past his boots in rivulets, running steadily off the porch cover over his head. The ant was having a hell of a time avoiding being swept away as he made his way along.

Chris’d only wanted to make sure the gambler was still there. A quick letter to the sheriff of Blue River to find out. Ezra never had to know. Didn’t want it to seem like he was checking up on him.

He blew the air out of his cheeks and lifted his head. The water that had been spilling off the roof and onto the brim of his hat shifted to pour down the back of his oiled duster.

The ant was nearly past Chris’s second boot now. It seemed confused that something could have been in its way. It dropped the piece of bread again, and reset it.

“Mr. Larabee?” Jensen walked out of his telegraph office. “I got a response from Blue River.”

Chris stood and stepped up onto the boardwalk, thanking Jensen with a nod. Unfolding the yellow paper, he read the words…and frowned again.

"STANDISH LEFT SATURDAY MORNING. HEADED EAST TO DRY RIDGE. SHERIFF DONNELLY."

East. Towards home. And two days was more than enough time to get back here. Chris walked into the telegraph office again, nodding at Jensen behind the desk.

“Can you do me a favor,” Chris began, “and—“

“Send a telegram to the sheriff of Dry Ridge?”

Chris just smirked.  
_________________________________________________________________________________

Ezra slipped in the mud, landing hard on his right hand and knees, grimacing at the jarring pain that burst up his right thigh. With a grunt, he lifted his right knee to find that he'd landed on a sharp rock, ripping the fabric and slicing open the fair skin on his kneecap. Blood pooled out of the cut, and the gambler grimaced—but he also didn't really care. Shaking his head, he struggled back to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him for the hundredth time that day, and readjusted his left arm where he'd propped it inside his shoulder holster strap

Or was it night?

In the fog and rain blanketing the plateau, he couldn't be certain. He couldn't see more than a handful of feet in front of him most of the time, and though he'd supposed that he wouldn't be able to see at all if it were night, the fog around him was so thick, it almost didn't matter.

This shroud of fog and rain had been with him since he'd awoken on the canyon slope.

_His descent had finally stalled about halfway down the ravine slope, after his momentum had been abruptly interrupted by a mass of thick sage brush and mesquite, the branches of which had latched onto his coat as he slid down on his belly beneath them. He was lucky—just a few feet farther and the slope turned into a vertical drop. The brush caught him in time so that only his feet dangled over the edge._

_How long he had lain there, he did not know, but the stiffness in his joints suggested a long time._

_He woke suddenly, shivering, disoriented. The world was angled wrong and everything was gray. It took a couple of minutes for him to understand that he was lying on his front on the steep slope, pointed up the canyon, his jacket bunched up thickly around his shoulders, held tight by scrub and brush. That, more than anything, had probably saved his life. It had acted like a bandage on the wound to his shoulder, stemming the blood. After that, it had just been a matter of time before his body recovered enough from the blood loss and other damage to allow him to wake up._

_Other thoughts, like the fact that there was no ground under his feet, pushed their way into his thoughts. His fingers grasped at the gravel and mud earthen slope, and, though his left hand refused to do much of anything, he managed to pull himself upwards slightly with his right, the derringer rig on his arm only slightly impeding the movement. This was because the gun itself was missing, probably ejected during the fall. Gravel rolled away beneath him, and the scrub clung tight forcing him to leave his jacket behind, but the gambler was not about to let minor obstacles like gravity and reality stop him._

_Slowly…painfully…he crawled up the slope. He used anything—bushes, trees, even mesquite plants if that was all that was available-- to pull himself up. His stockinged feet dug into the earth as soon as there was earth under them, and pushed._

_At one point, he stopped, and surprise flashed across his mud and blood scarred features. Softly, his lips lifted into a weak smile as he recognized the sleeve gun nestled neatly in between two red rocks. Using his feet to gain a little purchase, he snagged the tiny gun with the fingers of his right hand and somehow shifted his arm around to drop the gun into his pants pocket._

_And resumed his climb._

_What felt like years later, he reached the flat area of the trail, gasping for breath and nearly passing out again when he recognized he had reached safety._

_After that, only one thing mattered._

_Chaucer was gone. They'd taken his horse._

_He wanted him back._

Of course, he had been feverish and barely cognizant when he had made this decision, but his ill state had nothing on the rage that had burned through his brain upon the realization that Chaucer was not there on the trail.

They'd taken his horse. 

No one took Chaucer from him. No one. 

From somewhere very deep inside, his fury had gotten him to his feet. Green eyes searched the muddy trail for only a few seconds before focusing on the hoof marks of his horse, leading up the trail into the fog, towards the plateau. Guided by those marks, he had walked up the rest of the trail and onto the plateau before he had even realized it. 

The marks left the trail fairly soon upon reaching the ridge, and Ezra had turned with them. 

Taking a deep breath, ignoring the throbbing sensation in his left back shoulder where the bullet had hit him (and where it still rested), he wiped the water from his eyes and leaned over to look at the muddy earth.

The hoof prints were as clear to him as if they'd been painted a bright blue. They also seemed fresher than before. They weren't moving fast in this fog. 

A smile creased his face at that thought.

He limped on.  
_________________________________________________________________

Chris was pacing the boardwalk now. Jensen tried not to watch the black wraith drifting back and forth past his window, but it was a bit like trying to ignore the thunder rolling overhead. 

The bell indicating an incoming message rang behind him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Turning, he dove into his chair and started translating the pips coming over the telegraph wire, his upper teeth worrying at his bottom lip. 

When done, he leaned back and read the message.

His eyes closed. He knew what this meant.

"What did Sheriff Meeks say?" a voice asked almost next to his head.

Jensen jumped again, and turned to see Chris Larabee staring at him, eyes as dark as pitch in the faint light. Swallowing thickly, the telegraph operator stood and simply handed him the message.

The gunslinger read it, then looked back at Jensen. 

"Tell him ‘yes.’ And say we'll be there to join them before the day is out."

And he was gone, out the door to get the rest of his men.

"Good luck," Jensen whispered after him, turning to send a return message.  
__________________________________________

"Damn it," PK groused, cutting himself with the straightedge. "Razor's as dull as a butter knife."

Zed snorted from where he was lying on his back, his hat over his face and his hands behind his head. "Then don't use it."

"I can't head into Dry Ridge with this face, Zed, and you know it. Blue River might've put out a warrant cause of that stupid deputy."

"Oh, I doubt it," Zed sniffed. "It was an accident. They'll get over it."

"Still, never know. The sheriff there might do it out of spite."

"Well, that's why were waitin' here until this blows over now, isn't it? By the time we actually enter Dry Ridge tomorrow, no one'll be looking."

"Maybe." PK ran the razor down his face again, and swore as he nicked himself a second time.

Zed sighed, lifting up his hat to glance at his partner from across the wet fire they'd built. They'd managed to find a cluster of boulders on the otherwise empty plateau in which to set up a small camp, beneath where one boulder rested atop the others to create a natural overhang. They’d spent the rest of yesterday and all of today just waiting for the misty rain to lift.

Zed watched as PK tried not to tense up as he lifted the razor to finish shaving off his massive beard.

"PK, look, why don't ya just cut it short," he suggested. "Don't shave it."

"Nah. It’s too late now that I’ve started, plus I want it gone. Hated it before. Still hate it now. Wish I never had to grow it."

"It's the best part of your disguise."

"Ya think I don't know that?" The man that had seemed an old drifter drew the razor down his cheek, scrutinizing the face in the small mirror that was revealed as the gray hair was cut away. It was an amazing transformation. He'd looked about fifty before, but washing the charcoal from his laugh lines and without the beard, he lost almost twenty years. In reality, PK was only a little over thirty years old. When he grew his beard out fully, which they did before entering any town they planned to con, he tinted it gray to age himself, but it was the unruly scraggle itself that did most of the work. 

As the now young man admired his now clean face, he sighed. "Hey, Zed, tell ya what. How 'bout, next town we con, you challenge the rube and I stake out the head gambler?"

Zed chuckled. "Because you're the fast gun, PK, and I'm the brains, that's why."

"Brains, ha!" PK sneered, wiping the razor off on the small towel on this shoulder. Then he lifted it up to take the rest of the soap from his face. He grimaced to see more fresh blood stains mingled with the old ones already ingrained in the cotton material. His face stung from razor burn, and the cuts smarted. "Next town," he stated firmly, "we get a new razor."

"With that money, kid, we'll be able to buy a thousand razors."

PK gave a small smile, looking up from the mirror again. "Yeah," he mused. "Gonna be great."

"While it lasts," the older man cautioned. "Don't think it means you can stop practicing."

"Practicing…" The smile left PK's face. Suddenly, he lurched to his feet, the gun in his hand already. Zed lifted up his hat to look at the kid, eyes wide open as he found it pointed straight at him.

Then the kid started to laugh.

PK twirled the gun in his fingers, then slid it back into his holster. He looked meaningfully at Zed, who was watching him now with a narrowed gaze.

"Ain't no one faster n' me, Zed. I’m gonna prove that to the world someday."

Zed snorted, and propped himself up on his elbows. "Sure you are," he drawled sarcastically. "And someday I'll be president."

PK shook his head, kneeling down next to his friend. "I mean it. Hell, you know where we are?"

"Half a day’s ride from Dry Ridge?"

"Which is a day's ride from Four Corners," PK said. "They say Chris Larabee lives there."

"Larabee," Zed repeated, already knowing where this was going. He wondered when the kid would start getting too cocky for him to control.

PK was nodding at him, not sensing the annoyance in the other's tone. "He's one of the fastest guns around, so they say. How 'bout we go there next, huh?" PK looked into the fog. "Then, after I take him down, I'll take down his friends, prove that the stories 'bout them are all jes' shite…."

Zed sighed again, and pushed himself up to his feet. "No profit in it. If there ain't money to be had, why bother?"

"’Cause it means something to kill someone like Larabee!" PK insisted. "I'd know I was the best then."

"Make it hard to keep running our con after you killed someone like that."

"It'd be worth it. Besides, all I have to do is grow the beard again after we leave. Trust me--Larabee’ll never know what hit him."

"But it would ruin the con for sure," Zed pressed. "Someone’ll recognize you, even with the beard. That sort of notoriety’s too big to hide. How you going take down the rube in the next town we hit if he knows how fast you are? And how am I going track the gambler that makes the profit? Not that any of 'em _would_ make a profit, since they'll all think you'll win now."

PK's teeth ground together, and he looked down at the wet earth. Finally, he grunted.

"Fine. Yer right. Don't make no sense."

"Thank you," Zed visibly relaxed. 

"But we could still go to Four Corners, couldn't we?" PK looked up, his eyes pleading.

Zed gave a small smile, "Maybe. We could as sure scope it out. Heard there's a rancher there named James who likes a good show – maybe we could set something up out at his ranch."

"And maybe we could get Larabee there?"

Zed's expression darkened again. Yup. He'd lost PK.

He shrugged. Oh well. Larabee would kill the whelp, and Zed would just have to find someone new. And if PK won--kid really was fast, faster than anyone else Zed had run this con with--then Zed would just knock him off later to stop him from telling anyone about his former friend Zed Neilsen. Then he'd just find someone new.

Really, what the hell? The three hundred would probably last just long enough.

"Was that a yes?" PK had seen Zed's shrug. His hand rested on his gun again.

"Yes," Zed replied, not missing the implied threat. PK knew Zed was no match for him, besides Zed wasn't wearing his guns.

"Great," PK smiled, lifting his hand away. "Now, I think it's your turn to make dinner, ain't it?"  
___________________________________________________________________________

Ezra heard them before he saw them, which was not in the least surprising. He could barely see the ground now, the fog was so thick. It was like walking through a blanket of clouds. 

A faint glow was also obvious. A campfire.

He stood outside of visible range for a few moments, listening to their conversation as they discussed who was going to make dinner that night. He'd arrived there in time to hear Zed talking about PK ruining their con game, and heard them mention both Four Corners and Larabee, before the two started in on a conversation about burnt flatbread. After a moment, he decided he didn't care to hear the outcome. He'd just wanted to establish where they were each standing.

He pulled the derringer from his pocket and limped forward, gun outstretched, his mind feeling startlingly clear and cold. When he had them both in his sights, he stepped into the firelight and asked the only thing that mattered.

"Where is my _horse_?"


	3. Odds and Ends

PK spun around, hand going for his gun at the strange voice behind him, but stopped when he saw the sleeve gun pointed at his skull. It didn't matter that the man holding it was trembling so hard he looked about ready to collapse; if anything, that made it worse. It meant the man had nothing to lose—and his finger could pull the trigger if he started shaking too much. PK swiftly lifted his hands up.

Zed had already lifted his hands up, having seen Standish appear from out the fog before his partner. His gray eyes were wide open, his swift mind quickly getting over its shock at the sight of a walking dead man, and calculating the odds.

"You…you're dead," PK whispered, still not quite believing it. The fog had to be playing with his mind. It wasn't the same man; it couldn't be the same man. He looked the gambler up and down, taking in the ripped and muddy waistcoat, the torn shirt speckled in blood and dirt, the ragged trousers and filth encrusted socks. There was a two day growth on the man's face, which hid some of the damage to it, but not much. Bruises and cuts marred every feature except his eyes, which stared unnervingly at PK. 

"I _said_ ," Ezra repeated, the words slurring on his tongue, "where is my _horse_?" If he was surprised to see a much younger man with Pickaxe's voice, he didn't show it.

"Horse?" PK blinked. He could barely understand the gambler; the voice was incredibly quiet and, to the kid's mind, unnatural sounding.

"Your horse is not here," Zed said calmly, trying to draw the gambler's attention. If he looked towards him, PK might be able to draw.

"Yeah!" PK said quickly. "He run off! Two nights ago. He ain't here!"

"PK," Zed hissed. "Calm down. Man don't care about his horse. He wants his money."

"Shut up," Ezra spat at Zed, not taking his eyes off of PK. "What did you do to him?"

"Me?" PK's hands pointed to himself. "Nothing! I didn't do nothing to your horse. Honest."

"He run off," Zed said, "just like the kid said. We ground tied the horses, but yours got free. Don't know how. When we woke, he was gone. Tracks headed towards Dry Ridge over yonder." Zed pointed, hoping to draw the gambler's gaze.

Ezra wasn't buying it. He never looked away from Pickaxe.

"Take off your guns," he ordered, his voice still barely above a whisper. "Now."

"Okay, mister, okay," PK solely dropped his hands, lifting the twin pistols he carried at his waist out of their holsters and holding them up.

"Throw them."

PK threw them, as ordered. The guns disappeared into the fog, landing with a clatter against some rocks outside of the light from the fire. 

"Now turn around and lift your jacket up so I can see your back," the gambler whispered.

PK's eyebrows lifted, but he did as he was told, showing he had no hidden weapons. 

Satisfied, Ezra looked for the first time towards Zed.

"Now, point again," he said.

Zed dutifully pointed towards Dry Ridge.

Ezra frowned. "If he has one bruise on him, one speck of blood showing he was mistreated, I will find you and I will kill you."

PK's shoulders slumped slightly, relaxing because that meant the gambler wasn't going to kill them. Zed understood as well, and he flashed a smile.

"He's fine. Your bags and saddle are even still on him. Yer boots too."

Ezra's eyes darkened. "You…left him saddled? How long?"

PK's shoulders tensed again. Zed looked left and right, knowing that there was nothing nearby to aid him, but looking anyway.

"Oh, um…No, now, you don't understand. He wouldn't let us near him, fought us every step, worse n' a mule with a suicide streak."

Ezra’s frown only deepened. "You are…not helping yourself."

"I'm just trying to explain that we never hurt him. Never even touched him. Okay?"

Ezra didn’t let up on the frown, but he said nothing more. 

"Now then…" Zed plastered on a fake smile. "Survivor like you--and I can tell you're a survivor by the sheer fact that you're standing here--probably wants his money back, right? So you can get back to your gaming?"

Ezra’s gaze narrowed, as if he’d forgotten about the cash. But he gave a nod after a moment.

"Well…" Zed was still smiling, and he glanced at PK for only a second before returning his eyes to the gambler. "I happen to have it right here, in my bags, let me get it for ya…." He knelt down, knowing Ezra was following him with his eyes.

PK got the subtle signal, and he shifted to the right, as if he were going to run off. Ezra couldn't help but look that way, just as Zed grabbed the gambler's Remington from out of his bag.

The derringer's gunshot was not as loud as most guns, but its impact was just as deadly at this close range.

Zed screamed, holding his bleeding forearm up against his chest, eyes watering. PK's hands lifted up again, even higher this time. He recognized good aim when he saw it.

"You." Ezra looked at PK. "Bring my guns."

PK nodded dumbly, and turned and walked to where Zed was still sitting. They looked at each other, but Zed shook his head. PK grimaced, but fished out the Colt and the Remington and carried them back to Ezra. 

"They loaded?" 

PK broke open both chambers to show that they both were still filled with bullets. Ezra nodded at him.

"Cock ‘em, put ‘em down and back up."

PK did as he was told and backed away to stand by Zed, who was on his knees now, staring calmly at Ezra. His bloody hand was still held against his chest where Ezra had shot it.

The gambler knelt, still not taking his eyes off the two men, and slipped his stiff left arm out of the impromptu sling he’d made with his shoulder rig. Awkwardly, left hand shaking, he lifted up the colt and slipped it into his left pants pocket. Then he picked up the heavier Remington and slid it into the holster on his gunbelt. 

"And my money?" Ezra asked, straightening up again, sliding his left hand back into shoulder rig. The derringer's aim never wavered. 

"Here," Zed reached into his breastpocket and pulled out the wad of cash. Standing, he brushed past PK, stepping slightly in front of the other man, and walked steadily up to Ezra.

PK saw the gun in the back of the man's pants, impressed that Zed had slipped it there without the gambler noticing. Quick as a snake, he grabbed it, hiding it behind his back as his partner kept moving.

Zed held the money out with his good hand. The gambler looked down at the cash instinctively, which was all silver haired man needed. In a blue of motion, Zed swiped his right hand out and knocked the gun from Ezra's hand, betting on the man's obvious pain to have weakened his grip. The gambler gasped as the derringer slid away into the fog, as did Zed because of the pain he'd just caused himself from using his hurt arm.

Zed lurched away. "Shoot him!" he yelled at PK.

The kid had the gun up before Ezra could move, the gambler's hands gripping into fists as he shut his eyes....

Then Ezra opened them again when he realized he was still alive. 

PK was smiling at him, still pointing the gun at his head. 

"You any good with that Remington?" he asked casually.

Confusion crossed Ezra's face briefly, then he smiled dryly. "Yes," he answered honestly. 

"PK!" Zed was pissed, bent over and cradling his right arm to his chest. "Just kill him!"

"I'm betting that I'm faster n' you," PK said to the gambler.

Ezra straightened his back, presenting his right side to PK. “I’ll take those odds."

"Ha!" PK grinned. "You ain't seen nothing, gambler."

"PK, don't be an ass!" Zed stated firmly. "You got him now. Just take the shot!"

PK shook his head, and uncocked the gun. Still smiling, he dropped it into the holster and lifted his hand away so it hovered just over the weapon.

Zed groaned. 

Ezra lowered his right hand to hover just over the Remington, fingers dancing.

The two men stared at each other, neither giving an inch. PK's smile never wavered as he watched Ezra’s right hand. Ezra's eyes were frozen on the other man's face.

PK went for his gun.

The gunshot was loud, almost impossibly so. It rang in the kid's ears as he stared down in shock at the hole in his leg, the pain incredible. He tried to lift his gun, but a second shot hit him in the chest and he couldn’t breathe. He dropped his still cold gun as the trembling fingers on his left hand lifted to touch at the blood spreading across his shirt, amazed at how dark it was. The ground slammed into his knees (or at least, that's how it seemed), and he looked up at Ezra one last time, eyes still registering shock.

Ezra had shot him with the colt, twice. PK’d been so focused on the Remington, on Ezra’s right hand, he hadn’t noticed the gambler put his other hand in his pants pocket where the colt was. Ezra’d shot him through the pocket, then pulled the gun out and shot him in the chest. He’d never even drawn the Remington. 

“No fair,” the boy croaked, feeling the blood bubbling up his throat and into his mouth. “You cheated.”

“In what world,” Ezra answered coldly as he lowered the colt, “did you deserve fair?”

"Good lord," Zed whispered, struggling upright as PK fell the rest of the way to the ground. 

Ezra pulled the Remington then, pointing it at him. Zed's hands flew up, grimacing as his hurt hand protested.

"My money," Ezra snarled.

Zed still held the three hundred dollars in his good hand. As soon as Ezra put the colt back in his left pocket, Zed handed the cash over without trying anything. The silver haired man was shaking fiercely now, clearly terrified.

"I should kill you," the gambler hissed, tucking the money in his pocket and resetting his left arm in the shoulder rig. His left hand was almost white in color—like a dead man’s hand—and Zed began to think this man was some sort of wraith. 

"Please," Zed begged, "please don't. I'll do anything. I don’t want to die. Please."

Ezra sneered. Then, oddly, he smiled.

"It’s funny. Before you shot me in the back in that canyon, I was worried about being like you.” He frowned then, his voice fading to even more of a whisper. “About being a conman, a gambler.” He shook his head. “But I’m not like you. Thank _god_ I'm not like you. You’re a thief and a killer and a piss-ant. I’d never…I’d never do what you did, run a con like you did, killing for money.”

Zed nodded fiercely. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I’ll mend my ways, I swear. I’ll be better. Please, I get it now. I do. Maybe you can show me how to--”

“Oh, stop talking,” Ezra snapped. “Just stop."

"Stopping," Zed promised, his eyes still wide. He swallowed roughly. "Now what?"

"Now you put your hands on your head and start walking in the direction you saw my horse go."

Zed nodded and did as he was told.  
_________________________________________________________________

"How about seventy-thirty?" Zed suggested, peeking behind him at Ezra. The gambler just stared at him, deathly quiet, gun still pointed at the back of his head. "Eighty-twenty?" he pleaded.

It was the third "great opportunity" Zed had tried on the gambler, but, like the other two, it had fallen flat. Zed frowned. He considered himself one of the great conmen of the age, and to find himself thrown up against the brick wall that was Ezra Standish was killing him. He'd never known anyone this unresponsive.

They were already on the road to Dry Ridge. If he didn't think of something soon, he'd be behind bars again. He hated jail. 

He'd probably have been even more upset had he known that Ezra actually couldn't hear a word he said because the gambler was barely conscious. He wasn't hearing or really even seeing anything right now. His forward motion was basically automatic. The silver haired conman in front of him was actually the only thing keeping him moving in the right direction. Zed probably could have taken off running, and Ezra wouldn't have been able to do a thing.

"All right, if that doesn't appeal," Zed began, still trying to talk his way out of this, "how about--"

"Halt!" a voice shouted from the shifting fog in front of them. Zed instantly stopped, hands still on his head. Ezra stopped as well, but only because Zed had stopped.

Four riders and a riderless horse came into view. 

Vin, riding point, halted Peso and stared slack-jawed at the gambler's appearance. Ezra didn't seem to acknowledge him, which frightened him even more than the mud and blood he saw all over the gambler.

"Ezra! Thank god!" Nathan called, coming up behind Vin and releasing the reins of the familiar chestnut he'd been ponying, his face splitting into a grin. The grin faltered when he noted the same blank stare.

"What the hell happened to you?" Chris Larabee growled, pulling out his peacemaker and pointing it at Zed. The silver-haired conman gave a weak smile, turning slightly to look back at Ezra. He frowned a little when he saw that Ezra hadn't reacted to these men.

"That’s your man, Larabee?" Sheriff Meeks said from his position in back, sounding slightly bored. "Sure as hell doesn't look like Standish."

Zed's head swiveled around again to look at the black-clad gunslinger. 

"You're Chris Larabee?" he said, a hint of fear in his voice. " _The_ Chris Larabee?"

Chris glared at him, then back at Ezra. "Ezra, I asked you a question! What happened? Who is this guy?" 

At that same moment, Chaucer shook his head, and something flickered in the empty green depths. Ezra blinked and looked around him for the first time. Glazed eyes passed over Chris, Vin and Nathan. Then, abruptly, he grinned.

"My friend," he croaked, walking forward, "you found me!"

"Of course we found you," Nathan said, thinking the gambler was aiming for him. "We've been looking for you since…." He trailed off as Ezra walked right past him and up to the familiar chestnut horse. 

Vin chuckled as Ezra wrapped his arms around the horse's neck.

"Thank you for finding me," the gambler whispered to the horse, pressing his face against the warm hide. Chaucer lowered his head over Ezra's shoulder, almost as if he were hugging him back. Then he lifted it again and snorted.

"Fine, you!" Chris looked at Zed. "Tell me what happened!"

Zed stared at the gambler, then up at Larabee, his gray eyes bright.

"Um…would you believe a terrible misunderstanding? Mister, uh, Standish there, as you can see, is not in his right mind and--"

"Right, that's enough," Vin said, jumping off his horse. "Yer under arrest."

"Excuse me, Tanner, but I believe that's my job," Sheriff Meeks said stiffly. "I think we should know the man's crimes first, don't you?"

"Just arrest him, Meeks," Larabee said. "We'll sort out the details later."

"I still need a cause."

"How about attempted murder of a lawman," Vin spat, not hiding the anger in his voice. "Ezra didn't do that to himself."

Meeks grimaced at the statement, only able to see the top of Ezra's head from his position on the far side of the group now, and sighed. "Fine. I suppose that works." 

"Wait, a lawman? What lawman?" Zed demanded, staring around at them in confusion. “Look, all I know is, that clearly stricken gentleman came upon me in the fog already in that state, and demanded I—“

“Shut it,” Meeks snapped. "You're under arrest." He took out his own gun to join Larabee's. "Don’t make it worse on yourself now."

Zed frowned, clearly confused, but he raised his hands in surrender. “It wasn’t me that did that to him, I swear. I’m not sure but—eep!“

Vin had grabbed Zed by the back of his jacket, spinning him towards Peso and the rope on the horse's saddle. Chris, nodding his thanks at Meeks, returned his peacemaker to its holster and rubbed a hand down his face.

"Let's get back to town," he muttered. He looked over at Nathan. "Check on him, will ya?" He nodded at Ezra as he spoke.

The healer walked over to where Ezra was still leaning on his horse. Chaucer lowered his head again, staring longingly at a tuft of grass at his feet that Ezra was preventing him from reaching. 

"Hey, pal," Nathan said, "how about letting me have a look at you, eh?" He grimaced at the dried blood on the man’s back, the hole in the shoulder obvious. He tapped Ezra’s arm, then frowned when he didn't get a response. "Ez?" He put his hand on the gambler's shoulder, intending only to turn him around.

The unconscious man fell backwards into the healer's arms. 

"Chris!" Nathan called, falling to his knees beneath the awkward weight. "Help!"


	4. The Odds on Favorite

"He should be dead," Doctor Pratt said, stirring the sugar in his coffee. "That bullet wound on his shoulder should have been infected with gangrene; his cuts should have been inflamed, especially the one on his knee; that broken rib should have burst a lung; his left arm should not even be functioning…" He looked up, brown eyes nearly hidden beneath the massive shaggy white eyebrows he had. Nathan stared back at him. The resident doctor of Dry Ridge shook his head, "It’s nothing short of a miracle that he lasted as long as he did--not to mention being able to bring in that prisoner. Man should be dead a hundred times over."

Nathan offered a weak smile, his own brown eyes completely guileless.

"But he's not," the healer stated softly. "And we're going to make sure he stays that way."

Doctor Pratt closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Of course, though…" He opened his eyes again. "I'd feel better if he'd wake up."

This time it was Nathan who looked away, turning his head to look at the bed behind them. Ezra hadn't moved or made a sound since falling into Nathan's arms two days ago.  
________________________________________ 

Chris finally sent Vin out with two of Meeks' deputies to try and piece together the truth, because Zed wasn't talking. In fact, the silver haired man had tried every form of con he could think of to convince them to let him go. 

Sheriff Meeks himself was getting annoyed with the situation. He had no proof of any crime, no facts to follow up on, and it went against his grain to keep a man in jail against his will without a proper charge against him. He had great respect for Judge Travis, however, and he knew that Larabee and his men were the Judge's golden boys, so he had given Chris an ultimatum. He had a week to figure it out, or he’d let Zed go.

Vin and two of Meeks' deputies followed Ezra's trail back to the campsite, grimacing upon finding the dead PK and two unhappy looking horses. One deputy took the body with him, while Vin and the other continued following the trail to the canyon.

About a quarter of the way down the red gravel path to Blue River, they found Ezra's hat lying on the side of the road. Vin also found the dark brown dried pool of blood, and the furrow Ezra's trip down the steep slope of the ravine had made. Not far down just above a sheer drop, Ezra’s jacket was caught up in a mesquite bush, held fast. The tracker shook his head, remembering Ezra's appearance and putting the most obvious scenario together in his mind. 

The other deputy expressed his amazement that anyone could have survived being pushed down the slope.

Vin actually had to smile at that. 

If anyone could survive long odds, he thought to himself, he'd have bet on Ezra.  
__________________________________

Josiah arrived into Dry Ridge the next day, driving a wagon with which they planned to take Ezra home. 

Of course, Chris, Vin and Nathan could have just rented a wagon in Dry Ridge to take Ezra home, but it was as good an excuse as any for the preacher.  
___________________________________

Morning dawned bright in Dry Ridge, the sun burning away any remaining fog and bringing smiles to the citizens. The town was normally as dry as a bone, hence the name, and the folk had welcomed the rain at first. 

After nearly five straight days, however, they were more than happy to see it gone.

The sun streamed in through the window, streaking brightly across the gambler's face.

Ezra's brow furrowed, and he lifted his hand, attempting to block the light. Hadn't he remembered to pull the shades in his room last night?

Green eyes blinked open when he realized he could also hear snoring, and not just any snoring—steam train grinding to a halt on rusty tracks snoring, complete with minor squeals and painful hitches.

Josiah.

The eyes opened wider, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He didn't recognize the room, but the implements, mortar bowls and jars of medicinal herbs gave away its purpose. He was in a clinic. 

To his left, sitting slumped in a rocking chair with his head buried in his chest and his hands in his lap, was Josiah. He appeared perfectly at ease, though Ezra guessed the man would have a serious crick in the neck when he woke up.

He blinked again.

Why was he here?

Throbbing from his left shoulder prompted to look at his left arm, seeing the bandages and the strap that kept it pressed to his chest. Had he dislocated it again?

No, he reasoned to himself, as the first hint of a memory came forward, he'd been shot.

PK and Zed.

And they'd taken Chaucer.

The thought brought fear to his chest and a hitch to his breathing. Sitting up as best he could, he reached over with his good hand to touch one of Josiah's hands, looking for answers.

The preacher came instantly awake with snort, eyes roving around the room once before settling on the gambler. Then his face broke into a broad grin. He grabbed the hand that had reached for him, holding it between his own two massive, calloused palms.

"Thank God. How are you feeling?"

"'Siah?" the gambler croaked, then started to cough.

"Oh, oh, hold on." Still gripping Ezra's hand with one of his, Josiah used the other to pour some water from a pitcher into a glass by the bed. He pressed the glass to Ezra's lips, finally releasing the man's hand when he felt the gambler tugging to get it back. Ezra took the glass from Josiah's hand and finished it. As soon as his throat lost a little of its sandpaper quality, he looked back at the preacher.

"Where…?" he tried, and coughed again.

"You're in Dry Ridge," Josiah said, "in the office of Doc Pratt. You've been here about two nights. I only arrived here yesterday, but Chris, Vin and Nathan have been here since they found you walking down the road from Blue River night before last."

Ezra frowned, "No," he whispered. That wasn't what he wanted to know.

"No? No what?"

"Chaucer."

Josiah's expression changed, and he started to laugh. Grinning, he shook his head. "He's fine, son. He's been ably taken care of down in the livery stables here. They're treating him like a king."

A relieved smile lit Ezra’s face. "He's not hurt?"

"Not a scratch on him. Way I hear tell, he saved your life, albeit indirectly." Josiah smiled at the confused gaze of the other man, and leaned forward to explain. "Chaucer apparently found his way into town last Saturday, still fully saddled and, strangely, carrying your boots. Because of the fog, Sheriff Meeks only sent his deputies to check the roads to Blue River to see if they could find someone who had fallen off his horse, but came up blank. Clearly, they don't have anyone of Vin's skills here. Then, when Chris wrote to him asking if you'd been seen, the sheriff put two and two together. He wrote back that he had a chestnut colored horse without a rider, and did that sound like your horse. Chris, Vin and Nathan pushed hell bent for leather to get here so that they could set out to find you."

Ezra stared at Josiah, absorbing all this with a strange expression on his face. Hell bent for leather? They were worried about him? They came looking? Ezra closed his eyes. It never even occurred to him that they might. He blinked rapidly, looking away. They came looking for him….They actually came….

"You're a lucky man, son." Josiah said softly. "Based on the story Vin put together, it's amazing you're even still alive." He frowned. "Can you remember what happened?"

The gambler sighed, looking to the sun filled day outside the window. 

"Ezra?"

"Yes," the gambler hissed. He did remember. He remembered being shot and thrown down the side of that ravine. He remembered waking up, half dead, all alone. He remembered crawling back up to the trail, and finding his horse gone. He remembered tracking the hoof prints in the muddy earth….

“They ambushed me in the canyon,” he said, shivering a little. “Shot me in the back for my money.”

“The money you gave away to the widows in Blue River?”

Ezra looked up at Josiah in surprise. The preacher just smiled. “Sheriff Donnelly said you’re welcome back there any time. Can’t imagine too many sheriffs that’d say that about a gambler.”

Ezra smiled a little, then frowned again as more of his memories came back.

"Wait. On the plateau," he muttered, exhaustion wearing him down again, "there is a dead man near a camp--"

"We know," the preacher said softly, sensing the other's fight to stay awake. "You killed him?"

Ezra nodded, eyes closing again. "No choice. Tried to kill me."

"Yeah," Josiah patted Ezra's hand as the gambler settled back into the pillows. "We figured as much, but it’s good to have your word. Now, just get some rest. I'm going to go fetch Nathan and the doc."

Ezra nodded again, barely hearing the last words the preacher rumbled out. He also didn't notice the soft touch of those calloused fingers on his forehead, or the thankful prayer the preacher whispered to the heavens above before leaving.   
____________________________________________

Judge Travis rang the gavel down, his sentence confirming Zed Neilsen to twenty years in prison. Zed was speechless for perhaps the first time in his life as he was led away back to the jail, still not quite comprehending what exactly had gone wrong.

Ezra watched from his chair as the dazed man stumbled out, feeling a little like he was watching some part of himself leave with him. It was a part he realized now that he was actually very happy to let go. 

Mother would be so upset.

He grinned. 

"Twenty years," Vin whistled, sitting down next to Ezra. "I really thought he'd go twenty-five."

"The Judge is somewhat more predictable than that," the gambler replied, smiling up at his friend.

"Predictable?" one of Meeks' deputies groused. "That weren't predictable. I coulda sworn he only gave that last fella that came to town and tried to shoot Meeks fifteen."

"That had mitigating circumstances, my friend." Ezra's grin had grown. "A jealous husband, wasn't it?"

"Well…" The deputy's face twisted. "Yeah."

"Personally, I still think he should have gotten the noose," Chris muttered, his arms crossed where he stood behind Ezra's chair. 

"Twenty years, considering Mr. Neilsen is an older man, is about the same, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said.

Chris snorted, looking over at Josiah. The preacher gave a tiny shrug.

"As such," Ezra said, pulling the wad of cash from his pocket and the small notebook, "that means Mr. Sanchez was the only one to choose the correct number of years, giving him…" The gambler wiped his thumb against his bottom lip and flipped to the right page. "A healthy sum of twenty dollars, and the rest, well--" He looked up at the men around him and shrugged innocently. "Goes to me."

"Glad I only bet two bucks," Vin drawled, standing up. 

"Should know by now never to bet against the house," Nathan chuckled from the other side of Chris.

"Why do you think I chose the only number on which Ezra was giving even odds?" Josiah asked, slapping the healer on the back. 

Chris just rolled his eyes as the others laughed, turning to head out of the courtroom. Before Ezra could stand up to join them, though, Chris grabbed one of the chair's arms and leaned down to whisper into his ear.

"So, now that you've taken down a fast gun like that PK, think you're good enough to handle me?"

Ezra chuckled, looking up at his leader. 

"Mr. Larabee, in such a contest, I would not even bother laying down odds. The outcome would be a foregone conclusion."

"Oh really?" Chris's smile grew. "In whose favor?"

Ezra just arched an eyebrow, and grinned anew at the renewed laughter from his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
